


My First and My Last (Camila)

by Youholdmenow



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youholdmenow/pseuds/Youholdmenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camila depicts the first and last things in her life (Camren)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My First and My Last (Camila)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my other story, My First and Last (Lauren), so if you have not read that, go read that one first.

My first memory as a child, that I could fully recall was gentle, and heartwarming. I sat on my mother’s lap, with a doll in my hand, (I had liked to think that the doll was the younger sister I did not have), as my mother combed her delicate fingers through my hair, which was quite short at the time. I would look up, from time to time, only to be greeted with her warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners like small cat whiskers. We watched television together, a cartoon I had quite enjoyed as a child, until we heard a harsh slam of the screen door, followed by the glass door sliding closed.

It startled me as a child, and I curled up against my mother’s chest, until I heard my mother rock me slowly, as she confronted the person behind the loud, shrieking noise of the screen door. I turned away from my mother’s chest, only to my greeted with a scruffy kiss on my cheek, who I instantly knew to belong to my father, as he apologized for the loud noise. He kissed my mother on the forehead, before whispering some unknown language to me. He sat with us, as we watched cartoons together, as a small family.

My first moment of anger was when my father could not come home for my fourth birthday. My mother was hanging the streamers, her body standing on one of our kitchen stools, which usually sat under the dining table, was at the corner of the room, her feet on it, and her arms reaching for the ceiling, when the call came. My mother, balancing herself, stepped off, and took her phone in her hand, and answered the caller. She sighed, and hung up, walking up to me, who sat on the couch, coloring the pictures in the book. She crouched, at eye level for me, and told me my father would not be able to come home for another week. He was caught at work, and could not get out of it.

I felt tears starting to brim against my eyes. I squeezed them shut, only to feel the tears slip, and glide slowly down my face, as I pushed my mother out of the way, gently, as I ran up to my bedroom. I closed the door, and ran to my bed, where I sunk my face in my pillow, the pink one covered in ponies, that my father had bought for me when I was two, and continued to weep into it. I felt my fists ball up, and slam back and forth against the top of the mattress, where many stuffed animals laid. Through all the crying and all the anger that would later turn into pain, my father did not come home for my birthday. .

My first funeral was for my grandmother. She was sick, as my mother told me, and she could no longer remember the faces that took care of her everyday. She had spent her last days, months, and years in our home, always complimenting us as if we were foreign people and continued to forget our names. She had isolated herself from us, always staying in her room, only leaving when she needed the restroom, or for food. Then, it all stopped. She was not able to move herself, and was left, like a lifeless piece of flesh and bones, laying on her white satin bed sheets. We knew the moment of nonexistence was going, but we did not know it would come so soon.

My mother wept quietly on my father’s shoulders, and my father silently stood there, watching the casket being lowered, trails of tears slowing running down his face. Just moments before, I was able to look at my grandmother, two weeks after death decided her time had to come to an end, and she looked beautiful. They had applied makeup to her wrinkled features, but was able to indeed to a fantastic job. And from looking at her, I knew that our paths have split, and hopefully, she will know she was buried beautiful.

My first occurrence of bullying was when I was ten, still in elementary school. There was a new girl in our class, and our teacher, believing I was the best student in the class, assigned her to seated right next to me. She strutted down to where her desk was located, from the front of the classroom, as boys admired her, and the girls absentmindedly started to stare, with jealous and awe. She looked at me, from head to toe, and kissed her teeth loudly. I smiled at her, only for her to point out loudly about my crooked teeth. I did not quite smile the same after the encounter with her again for a long time.

It did not stop there. Her comments about my body, that were once secretive, were yelled to the public of our school, as I looked down in shame with each passing day, while the students pointed and laughed. Each day of school became and struggle, and each day it became harder to breath. With difficulty, I was not sure how I had survived. Consulting my parents did not seem to be an option, and the adults of the school building did not believe me, because she was a pretty girl. She was a smart girl. She was everyone’s little girl. She was everything I was not.

My first audition was a television series, dedicated to singing individuals and groups. I remember a very confident girl, with all her family, or who I would believe to be her family, cheering and supporting her. Her hair flowed past her shoulders, like a cascading waterfall, or a gentle stream of water. Her head was lowered, concentrating on her feet, and her fingers fidgeted with each second the passed by.

I remember losing focus, for quite some time, with each note she had sung, and each word she belted passionately. Her voice was magical, and her personality was even better. I saw the way the audience stood and applauded her, and the way she shyly smiled. She made my stomach flutter, and my heart ache in happiness, the way I heard on movies, which was perpetually odd to my trail of thoughts.

My first love was her. Feelings had become undeniable by the time the television show ended, and our career, together, with three other girls, had began. My stomach seemed to be filled with relentless butterflies, and heart palpitations were never questioned now because of their frequent occurrence in my life, with every touch, every made eye contact held, and every word directed toward me. I was hooked, like a fish lured at sea, and I was loving every bit of it, of her.

But it pained me, to know that she would never reciprocate the same feelings toward me. I knew she would never feel her heartbeat rise in speed, like the beat of a kick drum, as a song would, progressively becomes higher in speed. I knew she would never feel butterflies flutter rapidly in her stomach, and feel her cheeks flush a light tint of red, in embarrassment in front of me. I wanted to believe she

My first kiss was with her. We had gone our separate ways, after our show was finished, and went to our own hotel rooms. Needing air from the two girls I shared a hotel room with, I stepped outside, and saw her, running her fingers through her hair, as she winced at a cell phone, held at her right ear. I stepped toward her, as she threw the phone at the hotel’s hallway wall, in frustration and anger. I asked her, gently, what had happened, and she told me. She stated that her boyfriend and her and gotten into an argument, and threatened her.

It was in the heat of moment, in anger and impulsiveness, I pulled her in by her waist, and pressed my lips against hers. They were soft, like how I had imagined them to be each night that I had dreamt about her, and her lips. She closed her eyes, and then raised her hands to my cheeks, where she cupped them, and firmly pressed her lips harder against my own. It was magical, exceeding my expectations of a first kiss, not because it itself was beautiful to experience, but because it was with her.

-

My last kiss was with her. She told me I was not good for her. I asked her “why”, but she did not respond. I looked at her, with hurt in my eyes, as it watered in pain. She thanked me for all the happiness I gave her, and all the pain I had relieved her of pain she thought it would never have been relieved. Then, she apologized for all the pain she had caused me, and the worried I felt every night. She apologized for the time I wasted on her. I asked her “why” again, but she did not respond. I told her that she could not just throw away everything we had. I told her that she was worth every single moment of pain I felt, and I would continue to feel pain for eternity, if that I meant she did not have to.

She pulled my face in, like the first time, and pressed her lips against me. I felt her tears fall, like raindrops on a window, with a trail behind it. There was a split moment of vulnerability, that I was experiencing at this moment, that she was able to let her guard down and show emotion that she always tried to keep hidden. The kiss said it all. Our lips separated, making me crave her, as our foreheads touch. My fingers ran through her silky hair, as she disconnected on interlaced fingers and stepped away from me. We said goodbye, and never did I know it would be the last goodbye she would say.

My last love is my first love and she was dead. She could not have been saved by the hospital, and my heart ached in pain every single moment I thought of her from then. Her body was limp in my arms, and I held her, the way I did when she was sleepy and would fall asleep after late nights, but I could believe that this was the same situation, but we were not in the comfort of linen bed sheets, and her body was cold, and we sat in a pool of her own blood and vomit.

I remember when the doctors came to confront our party of people, a solemn look on their faces. They told us that they did everything they could, and that they were sorry for our loss. We were allowed to see her, one at a time, and when it was my turn, I took a good look at her, before walking closer to her bed. She was pale, paler than usual, but was still undeniably beautiful. It felt surreal, to know that I would never see her emerald sparkle in the sunlight, or her eyelashes flutter in slumber. I brushed the hair away from her face, and placed one last kiss on her forehead, before heading out the door of her hospital room.

My last audition was as a speaker, as well as a performer, at her funeral. Unfinished speeches and songs had laid scattered across my bedroom floor, and every piece of area my room had to offer, the night before the audition. Every speech talked about how much I loved her, and every song sung in a melodious about her features, and her eyes. Those eyes were unforgettable and would never be seen again. Each piece of paper that laid on the floor could not describe how much I had loved her, and each tune could not possible offer enough description of her beauty. She was indescribable in words, and will continue to be in death.

I remember reading my speech, the one I deemed best fit for the funeral, and read it to her family, and as I did, I choked, on the undeniable lump in my throat, as a sob erupted from within me. The sheet of paper fell from my grasp, falling gracefully to the floor, as I did my face with the palms of my hands. I felt two gentle arms wrap around me, in hopes of comforting, as I continued to cry in,who I later found out to be her mother, crook of their neck, like how I used to in times of sadness when she was still alive.

My last occurrence of bullying was from social media, the spreading of rumors. I was on my phone, looking through each one of my social media accounts. Our fan following gave us their condolences, while the others were not so sympathetic toward us. They made rumors, about her and I, that I killed her. They spreaded it that I never loved her, that I did it for the attention. They told my family, and my friends that her death in vain, because there were still “gays”, and “sinners like her” out there.

I remember slamming my fist against the table counter of my family’s kitchen. It startled my mother, as she turned around, in shock, as I threw my phone against the wall, watching it shatter to pieces, before running to my bedroom, where I threw anything I could find, propelling away anything that was used as a projectile away from me. I was angered, furious, for the lack of consideration of the general public. She was dead, but they did not care, they used it against me.

The last funeral I attended was hers. Family and friend gathered in a small church on a Saturday morning, to mourn of the loss of a girl who deserved more in life. I gave my speech, and throughout the whole time I spoke, I felt tears welling in my eyes and the same lump in my throat on the day of the audition. I talked about how much I loved her, and how much I wished I have given her. I told the people of the ceremony of how much she tried to make life easier for me, but only she was just letting me fall. I told them that I loved her.

As I walked up to her coffin, where she laid motionlessly, in death and stillness, I admired the work of the makeup artist, with a small smile. They made her beautiful, with her usual red lipstick, and smokey eye that would always be tailored with it. It seemed that maybe she was not dead, that she was just sleeping, in deep and fast slumber. Maybe it was for the best, that she would at be buried beautiful, like my grandmother.

My last moment of anger was the lowering of her coffin into the grave that was dug for her. The mahogany block of wood, containing a body that would decompose in a matter of years, was about to be lowered to the ground, and I was not prepared. I hugged my friend, or comfort, as I realize it would be the last time, definitely that I would see the emerald eyed girl that haunted my dreams since finding her cold on the marble floor. That scene kept replaying in my mind, over and over, and did not stop.

I became angry, at her, and especially at myself. I was angered by the fact I would never get married to her, and have children with her. I was angered by the fact that I would never be able to kiss her lips every again, or hug her by her waist, the way she liked it, but was too shy to admit. I was angered at the universe, the world, for not giving us enough time together, but the five years we had known each other was not enough, especially to know something as majestic as she was. But most importantly, I was upset with myself, in knowing that if I had come sooner to her hotel restroom, that maybe, just maybe, she could have been saved.

My last memory I could recall was the last minutes before I was to go under the knives of skilled surgeons and professionals. They told my parents and my little sister that there was a slim chance of survival, or even recovery when doing a surgery like this, but it was needed because the cancer was taking over every organ I had,  and the control I once had instilled in me, as well as the very sanity I thought I would never lose. They left me to be alone to recollect my thoughts, and to bring tranquility upon myself, so I did.

I thought of her. I knew it was selfish, to think of a dead lover, instead of the impact this operation may have on my mother, my father, my sister, my friends, but I thought of her. I thought of how we were unlucky, to be struck in the utterly pure love I would like to think was shared. I thought of our last kiss, the way her lips gently pressed against mine, the pairs seeming to mold together like missing pieces of a puzzle. Her way out of life seem to rip me into pieces time I thought about it, but her smile, that was laced in my memory made me smile along with it.

I seemed like just yesterday that I found her limp on the marble floor of the small hotel restroom, her blood spilled on her, and her eyes bloodshot, I held her, after a phone call to the emergency respondents was made, and cried, my face buried in the crook of her neck, not knowing it would be the last time, and just begging her to stay. I remember her fingers, shakily, reaching up to where my hair was, when I lifted my head up, from the loud footsteps coming our way, and brushing my hair behind my ear. The paramedics came, and as I told her I loved her, her eyes fluttered shut, and that was the last time I would see those emerald eyes.

As they injected a fluid, with a needle, at the bottom of my spine, and began to put a mask over my lips and nose, I thought of her once again. I thought of how I had loved her, and how that love had seemed to fade, with each passing day she was gone. And as I felt drowsiness and lumber start to lull me to sleep, I realize that I was wrong. I had been wrong for the past seven years she was gone, and left our lives.

My consciousness started to fade, and I remember my last thought being: _No, I still love her._


End file.
